The Fandom(20)

The grogginess lifts, and I realize I’m sailing towards the clouds not because of a trampoline, but because of the hands which have seized my limbs, heaving me upright. The earth vanishes, and I momentarily hang in the air like a doll. Then, my heels smack the ground and bounce off the cobbles as the Imps drag me down an alley. The strip of sky above opens into an expanse of washed-out blue. I’m back on a main street again.

I turn my head and catch a glimpse of Alice, hoisted high above the heads of several Imps, her face twisted with fear. I hear shouts and jeers. Judging from the increase in volume, quite a crowd is gathering. Hands grab at my skin. We’ve caught us a Gem. We’ve caught us a traitor. String ’em up. Make ’em pay. They flip me on to my stomach and I lose sight of her.

‘Alice!’ I scream to the cobbles.

The Imps ignore me and lug me towards a barrel. Alice has already been dumped on one; she stands tall, her chin stretched high, probably because she’s afraid of falling, but I can’t help thinking how she looks like the tiny fairy from my music box. I half expect her to start spinning. And then I realize, with a bolt of horror, that she stands so tall because of the noose around her neck.

Before I can shout or scream or cry, I feel a rope slip over my own head and tighten beneath my chin. I try to lift my hands – to pull, to claw, to break free – but at some point the Imps must have bound my wrists together. This sends another shot of panic through me, as though the use of my hands could somehow save me.

The Imps plant my feet on to a barrel next to Alice and pivot me into an upright position. The other end of the rope whistles passed my ear like a bullet, arcing over a battered streetlamp and whacking the ground. Then it’s Katie’s turn. I watch them jostle her on to another barrel, her rope sailing after mine. I look down on the hateful faces and lock my legs, trying desperately to stand – I know that slumping will be the death of me. But the rope tightens against my throat, cutting off my air supply, and can only get tighter. I close my eyes and wonder if the noose will prevent the vomit rising any further. I wish my hands weren’t bound, just so I could hold my friends’ hands once last time.

An Imp with a hooked nose steps forward and raises his voice. ‘Silence, fellow Gems, this is your president talking.’

The crowd laughs and claps.

The president slices his hands through the air. The crowd falls silent.

‘Welcome to the Gallows Dance.’ He purposefully rounds his vowels, inflating his chest like a cockerel ready to crow. ‘We are here to witness the hanging of these . . . Imps.’

‘What are their crimes?’ someone shouts.

He looks to the sky as though communicating with a higher power. ‘Their crimes are scraping an existence, feeding their families, contending with your disgust, your persecution, your sexual advances.’

The crowd makes leering noises. One Imp lunges forward and tugs at my tunic. The barrel wobbles and I feel my body lurch against the rope.

The president laughs. ‘Their crime is poverty.’

I try to breathe, but the air is thin. My legs weaken with every passing second.

‘Their crime is disease.’

It’s strange what goes through your mind when you’re about to die. But my final thought goes something like this: What a shame to come all this way and not meet Willow.

‘Their crime is starvation.’ The president sweeps his hands in a giant circle. ‘Their crime is . . . holding up a mirror to the ugliness within.’

The crowd bursts into life, laughing and braying.

The president raises his hands in surrender. ‘But wait. These are no Imps. They are wolves in sheep’s clothing.’ He points an accusatory finger at Alice. ‘This one is a stinking Gem.’ He turns his attention to me and Katie. ‘And these two . . . God knows what they are. Imp by birth, but Gem by allegiance. Traitors through and through.’

‘She’s not a Gem,’ Katie rasps. ‘She got a C in her maths GCSE and she had a cold last week.’

‘Shut it, traitor,’ the president says.

I stare into his eyes, searching for a morsel of compassion. The compassion which shines from the eyes of the Imps in the film. But I see only loathing.

He sneers. ‘So what should we do with our stinking Gem and her stinking sidekicks?’

A chant begins, soft at first, but gathering strength with every word. Make ’em dance. Make ’em dance. Make ’em dance.

The president bows and the chanting stops. This is it. We’re about to die. The Imps remove their hands from my body and I teeter on the edge of the barrel. Somehow, I manage to squeeze some words past the rope. ‘We just want to go home.’

The controller laughs. ‘Tell someone who cares.’ He looks at the barrel and pulls back his boot.

‘STOP!’ This voice doesn’t travel through water. It’s strong and clear and hangs in the air like thistledown.

I squint into the crowd and see an Imp pushing his way to the front, his strong face set with determination. A shock of black hair spills on to his porcelain skin, and even from afar, blurred by movement, I can tell he owns the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

‘For God’s sake.’ He strides right up to us, his strong nose raised high. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? I know these girls, they’re Imps. All of ’em. You’re about to hang three Imps.’